On the Inimitable Feelings of Jason Todd
by Blackgate Transfer
Summary: In which Jason is himself, for better or worse.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Batman does not belong to me. I make no profit from this. Batman created by Bob Kane with Bill Finger.

 **Author's Note:** My first completed story of the new year is dark and moody Jason. Started and finished in an hour. Not sure if I'm setting a great tone for the next eleven months...

* * *

He has a gun in his hands. His mentor hates them, loathes them, does what he can to rid the world of them.

Jason, Jason likes them. He likes the power, likes the feel of cold metal and kickbacks and the sound of gunshots. God, he loves the sound.

He hates crowbars, though. Cowardly weapons.

But a gun? No, a gun is _strength_ _._

Not that he really needs that much strength against the petty dealer at his feet.

"What...what do you want with me?" He says, acting coy and tough like he even has a chance.

Jason says nothing, only nudging the man's head with the barrel of his gun.

"Look, I...I just deliver the supplies, I don't really know where it's made."

"Did you sell this to a boy in the Narrows?" Jason asks, pulling a small bag with a white powder out of his pocket.

"Yeah, yeah, I did. I don't know what the fuck is in it, though."

"See, whatever the fuck _is_ in here put that kid in the hospital."

"Like I said, Hood, I really don't-"

His excuse was cut off by a scream as Jason pointed his gun to the man's shoulder and pulled the trigger.

"What the hell, man! I told you, I don't know anything."

"I know." Jason said.

Later, Jason scrubs the blood off of his jacket in the small bathroom of his apartment. He stares at himself in the mirror, one hand clutching the jacket as the other holds onto the edge of the sink.

His hair is short and messy, the white streak of it sticking up like an obnoxious middle finger.

Jason has a moment of reflection, wondering what his life would be like if he hadn't died and taken up the life he lives now, doing things he was taught not to, using tools he was taught to never touch.

And just like that, it's over, and he's the Red Hood again, his anger the only thing anchoring him to his lifestyle of bloodstained clothing and handgun therapy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Batman does not belong to me. I make no profit from this. Batman created by Bob Kane with Bill Finger.

 **Author's Note:** So, I've found that I quite enjoy taking Jason Todd and writing intensely angsty pieces involving him, so I've decided that this is going to be a dumping ground for just that. It'll always be marked as complete, but I'll add something new if I get the urge.

* * *

Jason doesn't remember what it was like to use a crowbar before he died. He's sure that he did at some point; being a kid on the streets, it was necessary to use whatever he could get his hands on.

But now...

He takes off one glove. He wants to feel the metal in his hands. It brings him relief. Where it once was a weapon, an aid in his destruction at a time when he was powerless to do anything, now it is completely under his control.

What did Sheila think? Obviously, she couldn't have cared much about him, considering the role she played in his death, but surely...she must have felt something; he was her son, abandoned at birth or no, and there was no way she could have just _watched_ as his spirit was broken just as brutally as his body.

He grips the crowbar. He's standing in front of his grave.

It isn't cracked.

Reasonably speaking, it's impossible for there not to be at least one chip; the grass is impeccable and the grave's been there for three years.

Unless...

"Old bastard thought he'd keep it nice and tidy, did he?"

Jason drops the crowbar at his feet. Bruce will see it, if he visits, and he'll be unsettled, which is all Jason wanted.

But Jason will delay his return, for another night, another week...maybe another year.

Bruce Wayne did not save Jason Todd. And he never will.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Batman does not belong to me. I make no profit from this. Batman created by Bob Kane with Bill Finger.

* * *

Jason Peter Todd will not cry.

He will loathe himself, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands in the hopes of drawing blood. He will punch something, anything he can find that isn't too valuable, and hit it again and again and again, until his knuckles split and the shouts grow louder with each strike.

He will lean against his bed and remember what it was like in a time when he was on his own, fighting to survive but also somehow wishing he could just die.

But no. He will not cry.

"You're going to be better than I am," his father said.

This thing, this life—it isn't better than working for the rulers of Gotham's hellish underground, it's just cleaner, better- _looking_ , but never better.

But this woman, his mother, whoever she is—does she know? Has she found this better that everyone in Gotham dreams of? Did she leave in search of it?

Did she leave _Jason_ in search of it?

He doesn't know. But he's going to find out.

And damn Bruce Wayne to hell if he thinks he's going to stop him.


End file.
